Street Level....Atlantic Avenue

t the fourth stop on Atlantic Avenue for the B63 bus, somebody has been left behind. A Latina girl, maybe seven-years-old, races after the bus, her mother just a few paces behind her. The little girl is all in blue: a blue coat, a blue knit hat, and a blue satchel bag that swings wildly under her arm.

The driver sees the pursuit in his side mirror and pulls to the right side of the road to let the girl and her mother board.

“I actually beat the bus,” the girl says. “I cannot believe I beat the bus.” She skips down the aisle, while her breathless mother pushes her along to take a seat.

Although it’s 3:30 p.m., the sun is just starting to come out on this warm, rainy Sunday in Brooklyn, as the B63 bus fills with its diverse mix of passengers. As the B63 runs west down Atlantic Avenue—before turning around, heading east, and then taking a right on 5th Avenue—its route cuts across many different cultural communities, including those of Arabs, West Africans, Latinos and neo-hipsters.

Sidney Channing’s spirits are high; the beautiful weather has provided the season’s first opportunity for the 83-year-old to wear her light blue and aqua windbreaker in lieu of her heavy winter coat. The windbreaker partially reveals the pink floral house gown underneath that Channing always wears when she goes to the grocery store to pick up a few things. Her long white hair is pulled into a bun high on the top of her head to keep her cool. “I just moved downstairs,” Channings says. “I was in the apartment upstairs and I finally got to graduate to the apartment downstairs.”

Channings had lived in the upstairs apartment on Carroll Street for 40 years. “It’s so much easier on your knees if you’re downstairs,” Channings says. “But I still can’t find a bunch of my things since the move. This crazy nut moved me in.” The “crazy nut” is actually her neighbor, a young man whom Channings claims is on drugs and purposely misplaced her hearing aid, a device that she calls her “ear machine.” Two blocks from Carroll Street Channing exits at the front of the bus, heading towards her new apartment, smiling.

Near Carroll Street, Sarah Goodson enters the bus wearing a black pleated skirt, a light white sweater with her black hair pulled back in a ponytail. As she takes her seat, she rests her arms across her pregnant belly. She is six and a half months pregnant; her light brown cheeks are glowing. At 20, this is her second child. Goodson had her first child when she was 12-years-old. “I don’t know if I’m going to have a baby shower or not, with things being so tight, money-wise,” Goodson says.

Goodson’s mother lives in the Bronx and she will probably come and stay with her and her husband for a week when the baby is born. The father of Goodson’s second child is also the father of her first. They were not married during the birth of their first, but they are now. “I’m having the second one at a normal age,” says Goodson.

The B63 bus approaches 36th Street, where taco stands and Mexican eateries line the street. La Salsa de Hoy Dance Studio occupies the corner of 46th Street. On the sidewalk, near a Buick LaSabre on 53rd Street, someone has mounted the national flags of Mexico, Puerto Rico, the United States and the Dominican Republic.

At 55th Street, a Latino family enters the bus: a mom, her teenage son, her daughter, and a little boy with a toy dinosaur and a smile. The smell of Cheerios fills the bus. At first, all four of them sit together at the front. Within minutes, the teenage boy abruptly stands and moves to the back of the empty bus, his younger brother’s eyes tattooed to him. The little boy begins to slide down out of his seat, taking quick glances at his mother, who is aware of his every move. He tries to hold back a smile, but succumbs to a sudden giggle. “You want to go?” his mother says. “It is okay.”

As quickly as the words come out, the little boy is running to the back of the bus and hops in a seat across from his brother. “No, why are you here?” the older brother says, tugging the chord of his earphones. “I just want to sit here,” says the boy.

The bus stops again and 10 Latino men and women board. All the seats between the young boy and his mother are now occupied by chatting grown-ups who act as a visual shield between mother and son. The little boy keeps standing up, stretching his neck to see the front of the bus. A few minutes pass before he runs back to his mother’s lap.

Another B63 bus passes in the opposite direction. The two bus drivers look at each other, smiling and waving. There is a constant rattling sound, as the mirrors on the bus shake.

At 59th Street, Manuela, a Peruvian immigrant boards the bus. She sits quietly in a red and black plaid jacket, fitted over red stretch pants, a shade or two more faded then her jacket. Ruby earrings set in gold adorn her ears. She speaks little English, but she has no problem talking about her rubies. “I like to look pretty,” Manuela says. “These earrings are pretty. I always look good.” She pulls back the cuffs of her plaid jacket to reveal two ruby-encrusted bracelets. “Presents for myself,” she says.

Three seats from Manuela, an Asian mother feeds her daughter corn-on-the-cob while trying to balance her on one knee. The little girl, with pink butterfly barrettes in her hair, slowly bites the immense ear of corn. She gums her bites for several seconds before swallowing loudly. The circumference around her mouth is painted with smashed corn kernels.

Two older African-American women enter the bus, paying their fare with quarters they pull from a sock. One woman is wearing a long black coat; her entire head and most of her face are masked by a large black, square hat, with gold foil trim and a massive lace bow on the back - a proper Sunday morning church hat.

Her companion is in an ankle-length burgundy coat with matching hat. On one side of the hat, brown and green feathers wave to passengers as she walks down the aisle to take a seat. Her burgundy shoes gleam like stainless steel. She is holding a program with ornate, gold writing on the back.

Suddenly, a loud disagreement between the women erupts. “I don’t think this is right,” says the woman with the black hat, standing now and looking out the window. “This isn’t right. I can tell. You got us lost.”

“Settle down,” says the woman in the burgundy hat. “We’ll ask the bus driver. He’s got to know. Why do you always have to be like this?”

The two make their way slowly up the aisle, holding on to the railing. Their inquiry to the bus driver only leads to a shrug. The woman in the black hat now has a prominent frown on her face. The woman in the burgundy hat looks out the window quickly, not making eye contact with anyone on the bus.

“You know what you ladies need to do?” says a younger white woman in the fifth seat. “You need to get off this bus and walk that way and get on the B45. That goes to St. John’s Place.”
“Oh yeah, I knew that,” says the woman in the burgundy hat. “That’s what I was just thinking. Come on, let’s do that.”

“Are you sure?” says the woman in the black hat. “I don’t trust you. You’re always wrong and you didn’t know. Because if you did know, we would be on that stupid bus and not this stupid bus.”

The woman in the burgundy hat stares at her for a second. “I’m sure,” says the woman in the burgundy hat. “You’ve got to learn to trust people. Just get off the bus.”

The B63 bus driver pulls to the right, making a special stop for them. They exit the bus quietly. When she gets to the last step, the woman in the black hat pops her friend on the back of the head. The bus door closes and drives away.